Authors' note: Thanks for coming back for more! We love that folks are following the boys' adventures; it just gets better from here. ;) Reviews always welcomed, and let the 'good' times roll!

Dean's good humor dropped like a rock, his mouth going dry. He was already thirsty from it being Kansas and summer, but this was a whole 'nother thing. He made a quick visual spin of the parking lot: no fresh red, no stink of Firmament ozone or the strange coppery smell of a Leviathan, not even a scuff in the gravel.

Still didn't mean he had no cause to worry. There was always cause. God-damn Sam, the kid was a trouble magnet most days. Dean had to wonder if that wasn't another symptom of the soul tinkering the Firm did to his brother. Sam had been fashioned into a healer, a walking triage unit; Dean could whisper to machines. This had been the angels' design, exactly what they had wanted when they'd decided to tamper with the unique internal power source that lived in every Nephilim. But off-label effects were constantly popping up.

"Sam!" he shouted, huffing when he got no response.

Dean pulled out his phone and hit the second button, Sam's speed-dial number. He heard a responding ring, or rather a series of custom tones Sam had programmed to resemble a funeral dirge. Real funny. It was coming from the cab of the truck. Sam's cell phone was wedged into the seat beside his abandoned book.

"Great. That's just …" Dean slid his hand along Becky's dashboard. "Okay, sweetheart, where'd he go?"

Hot.

"You're gonna have to be a little more specific. Him or you?"

Him.

"So, so what? He got the vapors and stepped out for some air?"

Left.

Dean looked to his left, out the windshield and felt Becky grumble.

"Oh, he left."

He sensed an affirmative answer, an intuitive nod, which at least meant Sam wasn't taken but had wandered off on his own.

By the time Dean had unstuck his skin from the vinyl of the truck's interior and stood tall to scan up and down the strip, Sam's rangy figure was loping down the side of the road, still far enough away to be shimmering from the heat.

He didn't know whether to rip Sam a new asshole or admit to himself he was over-reacting. One response would definitely be more satisfying than the other. Folding arms across his chest and drumming fingers on his biceps, he had plenty of time to count to ten, twenty or thirty, even.

"Would it kill you to keep your phone in your damned pocket?" he yelled once Sam was within earshot.

Sam frowned and shifted the paper sack he'd been carrying so that he could pat his jeans. "Sorry, man. Must've slipped out. Untwist your panties, alright? I just got hungry—'

"Hungry?"

"But look. Plums! There's a roadside market down the—"

"Plums?"

"Christ, Dean, can I finish a sentence? Are you hard of hearing all of a sudden?"

Sam dove into the bag and flicked a small black-red orb at him, still kicking up parking lot dust.

Dean caught it, mid-flight. The plum was cool and soft in his palm and okay, maybe he could use something moist and sweet right about now. Maybe harpooning Sam wasn't quite as righteously satisfying as he'd hoped. He bit the fruit, and damned if it wasn't good.

"Fine. Next time, though, take your phone? Is that too much to ask?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but it was a contrite roll. "Yeah, yeah."

They loaded back up and began the trip home. Dean made a point to be sullen; Sam wasn't getting off the hook that easily. He wouldn't let Sam come within a foot of the radio, arching a brow when Sam looked at him askew. The gesture effectively cut off whatever conversation Sam had bumbling around in his brain, his mouth working soundlessly before snapping shut again. Served him right.

Regardless, Dean wasn't a total hard-ass.

It would've been quicker to avoid the congestion and traffic lights of downtown, but he guided the truck down Massachusetts St. anyway. Sam didn't wrinkle his forehead in curiosity until they made a right onto East 7th St., which was in no way a route to the farm. Dean parked at a metered spot perpendicular to the curb and shut off the engine, letting Sam furrow. He was still enjoying the itchiness of Sam's confusion.

"What're we—?"

Dean silenced him with one lifted palm.

"But I don't—"

The palm curled into an upraised finger, which then pointed to a small shop among a long brick row of small shops, sitting right in front of Becky. A green and white sign hung on the building's front: The Raven Book Store.

"You like books, right?" Dean said, clipped.

"Um, yeah?"

"You like the girl that sells the books. Right?"

Sam blinked. He might even have gotten a tad red in the cheek, as though he didn't think Dean had noticed the leggy blonde with the little mole right between her eyes the last time they'd popped in, or how Sam couldn't stop staring at her. Sam had been in search of a particular book on composting, and though The Raven didn't have the one he was looking for, Sam had certainly found something, or rather someone, to make the trip worth while.

Dean finally cracked a grin, showing all his teeth. "Well then, let's buy us some books."

They stepped into the cool of the bookstore and he shoved Sam unceremoniously toward the front desk. As Sam shot him a glare, Dean wandered away to find a magazine, preferably something with a centerfold, and a nice quiet seat where he could soak up some air-conditioning and keep half an eye on Sam.

The joint wasn't big, but they'd managed to fit an impressive assortment of shelves every which way. There wasn't a magazine rack in view so Dean perused the section boasting 'banned books.' He'd always wondered what the big deal was with Howl, heard it was something about motorcycles and getting fucked up the ass. Or whatever.

A green, plaid living room chair was tucked into a corner behind the case where the 'T's were shelved. Looked perfect—he could spy on Sam without being conspicuous—except for the cat sleeping there. Dean already felt his eyes getting scratchy and his nose tingle.

"Hey," he said to the cat. "Hey, move. Scram. Beat it. I want this chair."

The cat yawned.

Dean took Howl and used the book to shovel the cat off the seat. The cat grumped and plopped to the floor, strolling away, stretching each limb in turn and giving the human a good look at its pucker-hole. Dean made a token attempt to brush the hair and dander from the cushion before sitting, extending his legs, settling in.

Sam had been joined at the desk by the legendary blonde. She was tall herself, probably pushing six feet though Sam still outdistanced her about a good few inches, and from the way they were both mutually blushing, Dean felt justifiably smug. He flipped open his book and began to soak up the beatnik subversion.

He discovered, much to his surprise, this Ginsberg fellow wasn't half bad. By the time he'd read to the tenth page, there was "walking all night with their shoes full of blood" and cross-country journeys and words that managed to paint vivid images that Dean had, honest to God, dreamt before—barreling down starry highways, drinking wine and looking for illuminated souls. But not all the Turkish baths and copulating and stuff. Well, okay, maybe just a little.

His nose was beginning to itch fiercely again and he had to suffocate a series of sneezes before he annoyed the whole bookstore. Sam and the blonde were still chirping away, leaning on the desk and if body language was any barometer, the weather was just fine. Dean dropped his gaze over the edge of the book and there sat that stupid cat, eyeing him. It mewled, tail twitching. Dean hissed; the cat was not impressed. Dean was about to make his point with the toe of his boot when the tabby spun its head around to the store's entrance, puffing. Its tail brushed fat and the creature darted behind the chair.

A heavy man shoved through the door, hard enough to knock nearby books from their perches. Tangled black hair stuck to his sweaty face and his eyes rolled like a spooked horse. That, in itself, was alarming enough. But then Dean saw the semi-automatic rifle.

"And things were going so well," he said under his breath.

A handful of patrons scrambled for cover and the calm of the bookstore exploded.

"Where is it?" the gunman fairly shrieked, which was quite a stunt coming from a man of his size.

Dean slid off the chair into a crouch behind a bookcase and reached for his own gun at the small of his back, only to recall they'd stopped bringing weapons to town about a month ago. He spied Sam doing exactly the same thing, and probably mumbling four-lettered words too.

The blonde put up her hands. "Ronald? Ron? Wh-what're you doing?"

The gunman—Ron—seemed to waver, his jowls flapping. "Where is it, Jess? The thing?"

She stepped forward as though to reason with the guy. Dean sucked in a breath at the same time Sam snagged her elbow and dragged her back, trying to shove her behind him.

Ron gestured with the gun in clear frustration and Sam flinched, the girl tucked at his back. "Shhhh! No one believes me, but if I don't kill it, who will? Who will? Where where where ..." He wasn't even speaking to Sam, to anyone, just flailing about the area and pinning glares on every person who had the misfortune to be in his sightline.

"Mister," Sam tried, "what are you—"

Jesus, Sam, don't be a big damn hero. Dean spun around, looking for some kind of weapon, but there was only books and a cowering cat. Maybe a pillow from the chair. Awesome.

"Can you see them?" Ron spit at Sam. "You can't, no one can. But I gotta—"

"Are they black? With teeth, a million teeth? And a forked tongue?"

Ron gawked, and Dean groaned inwardly. How the fuck could Ron be a Nephilim? Really? Where was the justice in that?

"You … you can see them?" Ron said with something bordering on wild-eyed reverence.

"I can. But I don't see one in here, so just put the gun down, okay?" Sam gestured calmly, pleading. For all his height and broad shoulders he hadn't quite grown into yet, Sam could cant his brows just so and milk every last ounce of sympathy from a situation. And most of the time, it worked.

Ron took a stumble-step forward, wheezing. "No no no no, I saw it come in here, it's in here and you're lying to me, why're you protecting it?"

"I'm not, I'm not! I just … you don't want to shoot an innocent person, right, R-Ron? Jess, you said his name was Ron?" Sam said over his shoulder to the girl, his gaze never leaving the gunman.

Dean was starting to sweat, in spite of the air conditioning. Apparently, Sam's moony eyes didn't work against crazy. Dean was reaching for his phone to call Bobby when the distant wail of sirens filtered in. The situation just got more complicated.

He didn't know if it would work, had never attempted the Language of Machines with a device as plain as a gun with bullets, but he had to try. Dean forced himself to focus, to tap into the brainspace of math and gears and motors, of pistons and power. He couldn't physically touch the gun—get an immediate feel for its workings except what Dean knew of all guns—and it was making the connection even iffier. Ron took very good care of his firearms, though, that much Dean could read. The likelihood of forcing a jam was slim.

The cat growled again and Dean noticed movement just as Sam did, past Ron's shoulder, creeping towards the front door. A college kid, with skinny jeans and thick-rimmed glasses. And the underlying shadow of jagged teeth like shards of glass in his lipless mouth: a Leviathan. Fucker must've been tucked behind a shelf somewhere, much as Dean was now. Sometimes you could smell them but not always. It had heard the conversation just as everyone had; hard not to when Sam, Ron and the girl were the center of the fracas.

Ron must've seen Sam's eyes flicker because he jerked and spun around, tangling himself in his own feet. He fell back hard, and the air cracked with gunfire.

Dean charged from cover and the Leviathan grinned with its awful, toothsome maw, and bolted out of the store. The sirens grew louder.

"Sam!"

"I'm good, I'm good. Get him!" Sam urged.

In two long strides, Dean was looming over Ron, grabbing the gun from the man's sweaty, fumbling hands. He cold-cocked him with the butt, not because he had to but because the shithead deserved it. Two more steps towards the door and Dean decided the police were too close; this was going to have to be the one that got away.

He turned back to Sam and saw red.

Sam was in a crouch, red on his arms, on his t-shirt, in the tips of the hair that'd come loose from its braid. Dean's blood froze in his veins.

"I thought you said you were good!" he almost screamed at him.

"It's not me, Dean, it's not me." Sam had the girl pulled onto his lap, his hands shaking and not sure where to land. Her pretty yellow shirt was quickly turning dark as she bled into the fabric.

"Shit. We have to go." Dean hated to suggest it but he didn't see any alternative. The Winchesters weren't officially in the system; they had nothing but forged I.D.s and a convoluted trail of fake paperwork. Wouldn't take the authorities long to figure out they were borrowing dead men's social security numbers. "Leave her, Sam. The cops will be here in—"

Too late. The air rippled in an odd, siphoning sensation. The hair on Dean's arms lifted, electric and prickly, and a wash of weakness almost took him off his feet. He blinked and it was gone, because Sam had reined it in. And knowing his brother, he wasn't stealing juice from anyone but his own body now.

Dean immediately went into spin mode. "All right, people, there a first-aid kit around here? No? Then get us some water and towels and air. Back off, ma'am. Let him work; he's a medic." Not a complete lie, really.

He physically got between Sam and the gawking bystanders, always moving and redirecting attention, all the while trying to keep half and eye on the door. Ron still hadn't moved; he was down for the count. Good. The fucker could deal with the cops himself, Nephilim or no.

Sam was curled over the girl, hanks of his sticky hair hanging down and trembling, his big hands splayed on her middle.

The sirens were almost deafening now. Brakes pealed outside.

Dean spin to a crouch and shook Sam's shoulder. "We gotta go. Like, now."

Sam's fingers clawed and he dragged in a sudden breath. Jess' eyes flew open, frantic and white-rimmed. There was blood spray under her chin.

"Sam, NOW." Dean dragged Sam up by his shirt and pushed him toward the back of the bookstore, shoving through people without grace or apology.